BY 

GEORGE    110 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


J  < 


/ 


^ 


IN  UNKNOWN   SEAS 


IN   UNKNOWN    SEAS 
A    POEM 
WRITTEN    BY 
GEORGE    HORTON 


CAMBRIDGE 

THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

MDCCCXCV 


COPYRIGHT       1895 
BY  GEORGE  HORTON 


TO 

H.  W.  SEYMOUR 

OF  CHICAGO 

UNWORTHY  OF  THY  HEART,   MY  FRIEND, 
ARE  THESE  POOR  LINES  THAT  I  HAVE  PENNED; 
AND  SO  I  DEDICATE  TO  THEE 
THE  NOBLER  SONG  I  FELT  IN  ME. 


43535 


IN  UNKNOWN   SEAS 


And  all  about  us  clanks  the  toiler's  chain ; 
But  in  those  regions  life  itself  is  dreaming, 
And  prudent  thoughts  are  held  in  high  disdain. 

And  we  shall  know  when  we  at  length  are 

drifted 

Into  the  glory  of  those  golden  seas, 
For  subtle  peace  is  there  from  heaven  sifted, 
And  balm  is  shaken  from  each  wing-like  breeze, 
And  clouds  are  by  a  sweeter  azure  rifted 
Than  any  blue  that  broods  in  skies  like  these. 


TF  we  shall  come  by  day,  the  long,  faint  traces, 
•*•      Crescent  or  straight,  will  grow  from  out 

the  sky, 

Of  island  mountains,  at  whose  sylvan  bases 
The  pleasant  valleys  of  that  country  lie ; 
And  all  about  us  saucy  mermaid  faces 
In  mirrored  waves  will  image,  faint,  and  die. 


A  ND  if  by  night,  we  shall  go  gently  gliding 
*•*•  A-down  the  moon-trail,  never  laid  on  land, 
Until  we  hear  the  waters'  measured  sliding 
Upon  the  whiteness  of  the  sloping  strand, 
And  laugh  of  lovers  in  green  arbors  hiding, 
While  grinds  our  prow  upon  the  shelly  sand. 
10 


THE   MOON-TRAIL. 

'T*HE  moon-trail  shineth  across  the  sea, 
-*•       And  stretcheth  off  to  a  far  countree 
In  the  realms  of  the  old  romantic  moon, 
Where  evening  is  morning,  and  midnight  noon ! 
Then  lovers  away  on  the  bright  moon- 
trail, 

Each  happy  two  with  a  tiny  sail, 
In  a  silver  waste  with  stars  above, 
And  nothing  to  do  but  love  and  love. 


^j  The  great  kind  moon  like  a  sphere  of  light 
Swings  down  to  the  rim  of  the  sea  each  night, 
Finding  ever  some  bark  with  a  happy  crew, 
Bringing  all  the  world  though  it  brings  but  two. 
Then  lovers  away  on  the  bright  moon- 
trail ; 

Soft  breezes  are  sighing  to  fill  your  sail ; 
There  are  stars  beneath  and  stars  above, 
And  nothing  to  do  but  love  and  love. 


^f  The  moon-trail  lighteth  the  sea  of  life 
For  lover  and  maiden,  lover  and  wife, 
And  it 's  joy  to  sail  down  its  shimmery  way. 
Just  two  together,  forever  and  aye. 
II 


Then  lovers  away  on  the  bright  moon- 

trail, 

Each  happy  twain  with  a  tiny  sail, 
For  there  *s  naught  so  sweet  in  heaven 

above 
Or  the  earth  beneath  as  to  love  and  love. 


me  it  pleases  most  to  come  a-creeping 
Up  the  round  world  from  darkness  left 

behind, 

Into  a  region  where  the  Dawn  is  sweeping 
O'er  rippling  waves,  in  rosy  shell  reclined, 
While  snouted  dolphins  leap  for  love  of  leaping, 
And  sea-gulls  rock  and  tumble  in  the  wind. 

^J  Ah,  long  ago  it  was,  at  early  morning, 
That  El  Dorado  stretched  her  arms  to  me  ; 
The  level  sun,  the  Golden  Gate  adorning, 
Turned  gray  old  rocks  to  piles  of  porphyry, 
And  outward  swarmed,  as  though  in  hostile 

warning, 
The  white-plumed  Phrygian  helmets  of  the  sea. 

CALIFORNIA. 

T71NE  land  and  pine  land  afar  by  the  West, 
*     Wine  land  and  shine  land  by  all  blessings 

blest, 
Benign  land,  divine  land,  that  God  loveth  best  ! 

12 


•[[  France  it  is  dreams  on  thy  slopes  where  she  lies, 
Italy  beams  from  thy  languorous  skies, 
Gleams  there   and    streams   on   the   world's 
Paradise ! 

^J  Land  which  the  grand  old  Sierras  o'erfrown, 
Stern  and  eterne  as  a  Titan-built  town, 
Marred  and  Jove-scarred  and  yet  not  battered 
down. 

•[]"  Giants  they  seem  of  the  old  fabled  races, 
Wearing  the  dream  of  the  Sphinx  on  their  faces, 
Lifting  its  theme  from  all  thought  that  debases. 

^"  Foams  o'er  thy  homes  in  a  deluge  the  rose ; 
Red  in  thy  meadows  the  wild  poppy  grows ; 
Balm  from  the  calm  of  thy  summer  sea  blows. 

^|  Oh,  now  to  dwell  where  the  oranges  bloom ; 
Oh,  now  to  smell  their  enchanting  perfume  ; 
Under  its  spell  to  look  back  on  this  gloom  ! 

*[[  Oh,  there  to  go  where  the  oranges  shine, 
Seen  through  the  green  of  the  trees  all  a-line, 
Gold  that  is  rolled  around  honey  and  wine. 

^f  Land  of  lives  drunken  on  sea- wind  and  sun, 
Passions  unshrunken  by  chill  skies  and  dun, 
Love  seldom  sunken  that  gold  may  be  won ! 


^[  Hum  till  I  come  to  you,  wild  honey  bees ! 
Bide  till  I  hide  in  you,  bloom-billowed  seas ! 
Save  but  a  cave  for  me,  Hesperides ! 


E  morn  in  fervid  youth  I  came  a-sailing 
Unto  a  heaven  habited  by  man ; 
Oh,  I  remember  how,  ere  night  was  failing, 
Unto  the  vessel's  pointed  prow  I  ran, 
And  watched  until  the  darkness  fell,  unveiling 
The  lazy  lusciousness  of  Yucatan  j 


^[  A  land  where  spring  is  decked  with  summer 

roses, 

And  ceaselessly  sweet  autumn's  nectar  drips ; 
Where  blooms  the  orange,  while  each  rift  dis- 
closes 

The  ripened  globes  all  ready  for  the  lips 
Of  Indian  girls  who  loll  in  languid  poses, 
Voluptuous  bosomed  and  with  swelling  hips. 


Some  eve,  perhaps,  a  little  winged  rover, 
Some  land  bird,  fainting  from  too  far  a  flight, 
May  circle  round  our  bark  and  flutter  over, 


To  perch  upon  the  mast  when  wearied  quite ; 
Then  may  we  dream  of  fields  of  honeyed  clover, 
Of  lowing  kine  and  orchards  bloomy  white. 


SUNRISE    UPON    THE    OCEAN. 

OUNRISE  upon  the  ocean!  vision  splendid, 
^     Lifting  the  soul  from  dust  and  doubt  and 

time! 

Who  sees  it  once  must  feel  his  earth-hood  ended; 
If  soul  he  has,  it  then  begins  to  climb, 
And  from  that  moment  all  his  life  is  blended 
With  beauty's  essence  and  with  joy  sublime. 

^j"  The  stars  grow  brighter  just  ere  night  has  fainted 
Among  her  revellers  at  dawn  of  day ; 
How  oft,  O  queen,  my  soul  with  fear  attainted, 
Have  I  besought  thee,  and  thou  wouldst  not  say, 
Who  dipped  his  brush  in  nameless  suns  and 

painted 
Upon  thy  dreadful  dome  the  milky  way  ! 

*[[  Then  suddenly,  at  some  celestial  warning, 
Night  gathers  all  her  jewels  up  in  fear, 
Save  one  rare  brilliant,  which  impatient  morn- 
ing, 

Who  in  the  darkness  standeth  dimly  near, 
Hangs  at  her  throat,  content  with  such  adorning, 
So  large  it  is,  so  liquid  and  so  clear. 


^[  The  leaden  world  to  silver  slowly  brightens ; 
The  early  breeze  is  blowing  fresh  and  free ; 
Gayly  our  shallop  skims  the  wave  and  frightens 
Bevies  of  flying  fish,  that,  flashing,  flee,  — 
A  cloud  of  darting  grasshoppers  that  whitens 
The  shining  meadows  of  the  argent  sea. 

•[[  Behold  the  east,  where  morn  has  scattered  roses 
And  irises  at  the  appointed  hour, 
And,  lo !  the  god  his  sudden  face  exposes, 
Intolerable  sign  of  life  and  power  ; 
He  comes,  and  in  his  warmth  the  world  uncloses 
And  opes  its  petals  like  a  perfect  flower ! 


WE    REACH    THE    UNKNOWN    SEAS, 

OO  it  is  morn,  and  near  us  lifts  uprightly 
^     A   walling  cliff,  severe   with    shadowy 

frown, 

While  straight  ahead  a  liquid  lane  leads  brightly 
'Twixt  olive  orchards  sloping  steeply  down, 
And  farther  on  a  pleasant  street  shines  whitely, 
And  cuts  in  twain  a  little  island  town. 

For  I  love  not  the  city  with  its  rattle 
Of  carriage  wheels  and  roar  of  frequent  van, 
Where  life  is  madness,  or  a  sordid  battle, 
16 


That,  won  or  lost,  contracts  the  soul  of  man ; 
Give  me  the  town,  with  hills  of  distant  cattle, 
And  grassy  streets  frequented  oft  by  Pan. 

Ah  me,  the  village  maids  whose  bashful  glances 
Thrilled  me  to  madness  ere  my  teens  had  fled ! 
Ah  me,  the  careless  days,  the  sweet  romances, 
The  fairy  light  on  all  the  future  shed, 
Ere  I  had  seen  the  world,  and  found  my  fancies 
Dew  that  is  vanished  from  a  flower  that 's  dead ! 


WHERE    NO    OLD    ABIDE. 

/~\H,  I  would  have  no  old  and  hoary  sages 
^^      In  any  land  where  I  must  dwell  for  aye, 
Whose  faces  all  are  yellow  parchment  pages, 
Where  grief  and  guile  have  wrought  for  many 

a  day; 
But  youth,  glad  youth,  through  all  the  buoyant 

ages,  — 
Youth  followed  not  by  spectre  of  decay. 

Youth  is  a  mask,  with  features  fair  and  florid, 
Worn  during  carnival,  a  careless  week  ; 
Soft  tresses  curl  about  the  snowy  forehead, 
Sweet  dimples  in  the  roses  hide  and  seek. 
Age  is  the  skull-face,  hid  in  frolic  horrid 
'Neath  reddest  lip  and  most  enticing  cheek. 


LET   US   BE   YOUNG. 

/""\H,  heart  of  me,  let  us  be  young 

^^      Another  merry  year  ; 

For  there  are  songs  that  must  be  sung, 

And  maidens  yet  are  dear. 


If  old  age  hobbles  down  the  way, 
All  wrinkled,  bent,  and  hoar, 
Let 's  scoff  at  him,  and  cry  him  nay, 
And  flout  him  from  the  door. 


For  sure  he  is  no  genial  wight, 
Whose  presence  pleasure  brings ; 
He  frowns  on  love  and  laughter  light, 
And  talks  of  sober  things. 


Oh,  heart  of  me,  let  us  be  young 
Another  year  so  fleet ; 
For  there  are  songs  that  must  be  sung, 
And  dreaming  still  is  sweet. 


18 


THERE   ARE    FOUND  THE  WORLD  S  IDEALS   OF 
HUMAN  BEAUTY: 

CO  let  us  dream  that  every  fair  ideal, 

Incarnate  once,  has  taken  form  again, 
To  glad  the  hearts  of  beauty-lovers  leal, 
Who  own  no  other  queen  in  sky  or  glen ; 
For  all  perfections  have  existence  real, 
And  cannot  'scape  the  searching  souls  of  men. 


HELEN    OF    TROY, 

E  witchery  of  Helen  is  undying ; 
Her  charms  e'en  yet  the  longing  soul 

enslave 
With  the  same  spell  that  brought  young  Paris 

flying 

With  sea-gull  sails  across  the  Grecian  wave,  — 
The  glory  she  of  seven  cities  lying 
Together  in  the  ruin  of  one  grave. 

The  world  went  mad  for  Helen ;    strife  and 

slaughter 

Were  kindled  by  the  lustre  of  her  eyes. 
When  she  was  rapt  away,  a  nation  sought  her, 
Warring  great  epics  under  foreign  skies ; 
Until  from  out  the  smoke  of  Troy  they  brought 

her, 

Swarming  to  sea  with  babel  of  hoarse  cries. 
'9 


O  O  rare  a  witch  enthralled  the  sweet  musician, 
^     That    king  of  Jewry,  saint,    and    bard 

sublime. 

What  then  to  him  were  saws  and  sacred  mission, 
And  righteousness,  most  fervent  of  his  time  ? 
He  saw,  and  fondly  seized  the  sweet  perdition, 
Soiling  his  soul  with  treachery  and  crime. 

Uriah's  wife  !  how  oft  thy  black  eyes  flash  on 
The  student  priest  from  out  the  sacred  lines. 
Then  fades  the  page,  while  fancy  strives  to 

fashion 

A  glorious  picture  'mid  Judean  vines : 
A  matron  form,  the  ripe,  rich  fruit  of  passion, 
And  olive  cheeks  wherein  the  red  blood  shines. 


ESTHER, 

A  ND  she,  that  other  Jewess,  softly  slender, 
-^"^     Who  in  the  cruel  presence  dared  to  stand 
With  nothing  save  her  beauty  to  defend  her, 
No  other  aid  in  all  the  heathen  land ; 
Yet  when  she  raised  her  eyes,  so  shy  and  tender, 
A  kingdom  dropped  into  her  little  hand. 

^[  Exquisite  Esther !  why  so  humbly  kneeling  ? 
Why  in  the  dust  thy  queenly  head  abase  ? 
20 


Now  by  the  sweet  intoxication  stealing 
From  so  much  loveliness  and  matchless  grace, 
Behold  the  lifted  wand,  thy  sway  revealing,  — 
One  kiss  is  worth  the  ransom  of  a  race. 


PHRYNE, 

OUCH  power,  too,  had  Phryne  when  sur- 

^     rounded 

By  graybeard  judges,  bigoted  and  chill ; 

At  sudden  gleaming  of  her  flesh  they  bounded 

Youth-like  erect,  their  shrivelled  hearts  athrill, 

"  Not  guilty  ! "  crying,  with  a  voice  that  sounded 

So  loud  and  full,  we  hear  it  echo  still. 

^[  Ah,  Phidias !    thou   couldst  carve  a  goddess 

splendid 

In  curves  diviner  than  we  moderns  know, 
Whose  shining  spear  the  sacred  hill  defended, 
Or  cheered  the  sailor,  homeward  toiling  slow  ; 
But  there,  alas  !  the  deft  creation  ended,  — 
Behold  a  fairer  dream,  with  life  aglow ! 


ROWENA, 

A  ND  let  us  not  forget,  where'er  we  wander, 
•*•*•     To  seek  for  sweet  Rowena,  Henghist's 

child ; 
She  was  of  larger  mould  than  these,  and  blonder, 

21 


With    sky-blue  eyes,  wherein  deep  summer 

smiled, 
And  with  a  Northern  heart,  more  true  and 

fonder 
Than  those  which  throb  in  tropic  bosoms  wild. 

O'er  sturdy  Vortigern  she  leans,  and,  blushing, 
She  presses  to  his  mouth  her  ruddy  lips ; 
One  moment  like  a  child  the  chief  is  flushing, 
And  trembling  to  his  hairy  finger-tips, 
Then  feels  a  sudden  madness   through   him 

rushing, 
While  close  and  long  the  dewy  bliss  he  sips. 


BEATRICE, 

A  ND  there  was  Beatrice,  who  so  enchanted 
•*•*'     The  sad,  majestic,  awful  Florentine, 
That  all  his  lonely  life  her  vision  haunted, 
Soothing  the  splendid  demon  of  his  spleen ; 
JT  was  she  to  Paradise  his  bay  transplanted, 
She  wooed  him  there  with  radiant  smile  serene. 

No  faith  have  I  in  muse  poetic  dwelling 

In  chilly  skies  amid  the  sacred  nine ; 

The  sweetest  verse  is  that  most  fondly  telling 

Of  maiden  charms  too  dear  to  be  divine, 

Of  reddened  cheeks  and  bosoms  softly  swelling, 

Of  honeyed  vows  and  eyes  that  shyly  shine. 

22 


LAURA,     HIGHLAND    MARY, 

p*  ACH  lover  is  a  poet  visionary  — 

**"-'     If  all  were  writ,  what  volumes  there 

would  be ! 

Laura  was  Petrarch's  goddess  ;  highland  Mary 
Will  live  in  song  while  Afton  seeks  the  sea, 
And  Horace  sings,  howe'er  his  fortunes  vary, 
The  praise  of  sweetly  laughing  Lalage. 


LALAGE. 

'  I  AHERE  'S    a    dimple  appears   when    my 

•*•       Lalage  laughs, 
Just  before  the  release  of  her  lips', 
As  if  Cupid  stood  by  and  would  naughtily  try 
Her  cheek  with  his  fat  finger-tips. 

^j  Then  all  of  a  sudden  a  rill  of  delight 
Ripples  off  in  the  light  of  her  eyes, 
And  her  little  teeth  gleam  like  the  shells  in  a 

stream 
That  fair  in  the  summer  sun  lies. 

^[  You  may  take  me  afar  to  the  desolate  North, 
Or  South  where  the  hot  deserts  be, 
I  will  sing  all  the  while  of  the  beautiful  smite 
And  the  voice  of  my  fair  Lalage  ! 
23 


THERE    ALSO    ARE    HEARD     AGAIN    VOICES    THAT 

WE  MISS; 

I   KNOW  not  which  we  miss  the  most :  the 
faces 
That  made  the  world  seem  home,  they  were 

so  dear, 

The  earnest  hand-shake  and  the  mystic  graces 
Of  fellowship  that  brought  two  spirits  near, 
Or  voices  once  that  filled  the  silent  places 
Within  our  hearts  with  revelry  and  cheer. 


For  there  are  echoes  which  can  never  wholly 
Fade  into  naught  and  perfect  stillness  keep, 
More  sad  than  beckonings  from  shore,  when 

slowly, 
With  cautious  stride,  some  great  ship  tries  the 

deep, 

And  fainter  far  than  lullabies  sung  lowly 
To  one  who  knows  not  if  he  wake  or  sleep. 


AND    BEAUTIFUL    VOICES    THAT    HAVE    CHARMED 
ALL    THE    WORLD  : 

A  ND  what  of  them,  those  tones  delicious 
^*     granted 

In  other  days  to  ravished  human  ears  ? 
Gone  like  the  singing  that  the  soul,  enchanted 
24 


By  Slumber's  poppied  sceptre,  often  hears, — 
Rare  fantasies  by  which  all  time  is  haunted, 
Imaginings  that  move  almost  to  tears. 

+ 

^|  Oh,    some    were    softer   than   a   maid's   just 

plighted, 

Confessing  love  to  one  with  passion  mad ; 
Some,  but  to  hear  them,  sweetest  grief  incited, 
Soul  music  than  the  poet's  lyre  more  sad ; 
And  others  like  a  sudden  joy  delighted, 
Sunshine  of  sound,  such  genial  spell  they  had. 

^f  Of  all  the  lovely  gifts  to  mortals  given, 

None  fade  from  earth  like  glorious  voices  do. 
Each  is  as  brief  as  though  a  wild  wind-driven 
Seabird  should  whistle  to  a  vessel's  crew, 
And  then  should  drift  deep  into  depths  unriven 
Of  seething  seas  and  all-enfolding  blue. 


TOM    MOORE,    SINGING    HIS    OWN    SONGS, 

OH,  play  no  more  those  Irish  airs,  though 
feater 

No  touch  than  thine  in  Arcady  is  found ; 
No  more  to-night  with  warp  of  wailing  metre 
And  purest  threads  of  gold  and  silver  sound 
Weave  witchery  of  song,  for  it  is  sweeter 
To  dream  of  one  who  lies  in  Irish  ground. 
25 


For  while  the  echoes  in  my  soul  are  sobbing 

Like  dying  waves  upon  a  lonely  shore, 

And  while   shy  night   the    summer  rose   is 

robbing 

To  waft  its  perfume  through  the  open  door, 
I  seem  to  hear  the  harp  of  Erin  throbbing, 
And  some  rare  ballad  lilted  by  Tom  Moore. 


SAPPHO, 

npHEN    further   flies    my   fancy,   whither 
A       whist  on 

The  ^Egean  sleep  the  evening  breezes  fair ; 
A   small   dark  woman  sings,  with   eyes  that 

glisten 

More  brightly  than  her  garland-plaited  hair, 
To  other  maids  that,  seated  round  her,  listen 
To  hymns  of  love,  its  triumph  and  despair. 

"  For  love  is  sweet,"  she  sighs,  her  sad  eyes 

raising, 

The  while  her  fingers  softly  sweep  the  strings  ; 
"  Nay,  love  is  bitter,  for  what  grief  amazing, 
What  sleepless  nights  and  doleful  days  it 

brings,  — 
Yea,  bitter-sweet," — -and  with  such  perfect 

praising 
A   matchless   song    down  all    the    years   she 

wings. 

26 


^[  For  this  is  she  who  in  the  twilight  hushes 
Of  lyric  art  made  poesy  her  choice, 
And  decked  her  brow  with  the  Pierian  blushes 
Of  blooms  wherein  the  deathless  gods  rejoice, 
And  never  any  dawn  the  sea  that  flushes 
Shall  lack  the  lonely  beauty  of  her  voice. 

^[  Oh,  lovely  scene !   The  lolling  wings  are  sifting 
The  air  with  perfume  that  the  bees  unlock ; 
The  sea  is  near,  and  through  each  flowery 

rifting 

The  twinkling  waves  innumerable  flock, 
While  far  away,  in  shadow  whitely  drifting, 
A  little  sail  seems  painted  on  a  rock. 

^[  Majestic  hills,  whose  lofty  inspiration 

Broods  o'er  the  soul  until  it  upward  springs; 
A  languid  clime,  where  passion's  exaltation 
Like  wine  the  blood  to  lyric  frenzy  stings ; 
And  boundless  seas  that  tempt  imagination 
Afar  from  shore  to  try  her  petrel  wings. 

^f  This  is  the  Isle  of  Beauty  :  if  Apollo 

Shake  morning  sea-dew  from  his  shining  hair, 
Or  if  at  noon  in  grove  or  grassy  hollow 
The  sweet  hours  languish  indolently  fair, 
Or  if  at  eve  chameleon  changes  follow 
In  waves  more  bright  than   those   of  other- 
where. 

27 


^[  And  oh,  the  nights !  with  what  a  look  of  wonder 
Above  the  hills  the  moon  reveals  her  face, 
Surprised  to  find,  her  own  realm  stretching 

under, 

The  level  seas'  illimitable  grace, 
Or  seems  to  pause  mid-sky  to  list  the  thunder 
Of  waves  against  some  headland's  gloomy  base. 

^J  This  was  the    home  of  Sappho,  the  dawn- 

bringer 

Of  lyric  splendor  brighter  than  its  day ; 
Eos  of  passion  poesy  ;  word- winger 
Of  sighs  that  linger  in  the  world  for  aye; 
Tenth  Muse,  and  best  of  all,  the  woman  singer 
Whose  roses  last  while  nations  fade  away. 

^[  Somewhere,  'mid  time's  unsifted  ashes  hidden, 
The  Lesbian's  lines  like  deathless  embers  glow  : 
Perchance  some  maid  of  Asia  Minor,  chidden 
By  Christian  priest,  concealed  them  long  ago  ; 
Perhaps  the  Sphinx  may  give  them  up  unbidden 
From  tomb  of  Pharoah's  daughter,  lying  low. 

^[  Howe'er  that  be,  there  is  an  island  sapphic, 
That  ne'er  was  touched  by  human  caravels, 
Whose  seas,  unwhitened  by  the  sails  of  traffic, 
Bring  lotus-eaters  on  their  summer  swells  ; 
And  there,  full-famed  of  all  her  songs  seraphic, 
Rose-loving,  violet-weaving  Sappho  dwells. 
28 


ERYNNA. 

A  ND  you  shall  say  if  young  Erynna  pleases 
^^     More  while  she  plays  the  simple  maiden's 

part,  ^ 
Than   when,   inspired,  the   ancient  lyre  she 

seizes, 

And  sweeps  it  o'er  with  most  delicious  art, 
What  time    her   voice,   like    sigh    of  softest 

breezes, 
Makes  music  on  the  harpstrings  of  the  heart. 


'  I  *HE  music  of  thy  name  shall  vanish  never, 
•*•       Oh,  dear  girl  poet,  dead  so  long  ago ; 
Erynna,  lovely  word,  that  lives  forever, 
Gem-like,  amid  the  ages'  melting  snow,  — 
The  fairest  sign  of  incomplete  endeavor, 
Of  songs  unsung,  more  sweet  than  those  we 
know. 

And  there  was  he,  the  only  modern  Grecian 
Whose  lines  like  rills  of  Hybla  honey  run ; 
Shall  we  not  see,  redeemed  from  death's  dele- 
tion, 
The  garlands  that  his  manhood  must  have 

won, 

And  e'en  peruse,  in  all  its  high  completion, 
The  gloomy  splendor  of  Hyperion  ? 
29 


What  wrought  upon  the  earth  its  epoch  golden 
Of  beauty  worship,  longingly  intense  ? 
The  skies  of  Greece,  her  seas  each  day  beholden, 
Wooing  the  soul  with  ceaseless  influence,  . 
The  mystic  sigh  of  winds  in  forests  olden, 
Her  hillsides  wrapped  in  violet  indolence. 


,  where  are  they,  those  matchless  marble 

creatures 

That  made  a  forest  in  the  Parthenon  ? 
Delicious    shapes,   whose   fragments   are    the 

teachers 

Of  all  in  art  the  soul  may  feed  upon, 
Exquisite  bodies,  rapt,  immortal  features, — 
Into  what  realm  beyond  us  are  they  gone  ? 


SCULPTURE 

HpHERE  was  a  mighty  city,  long  ago, 
•••       That  lived  a  thousand  years  of  pride 

.  and  power. 

From  marble  gates  its  locust  armies  swarmed 
To  pour  on  fertile  countries  far  away, 
Or  thence  returned,  with  treasures  rare  and 

strange : 

Slaves  for  the  fields,  swart  women  for  the  chiefs, 
And  golden  gewgawry  of  unknown  gods. 
30 


^[  Its  merchant  vessels  whitened  every  sea, 
And  daring  evermore  the  dim  unknown 
Pushed  wider  out  the  world's  encircling  rim. 

^|  Its  marble  temples  gleamed  on  many  hills, 
Where  stately  priests  on  pillared  porticos, 
Or  safe  enshrined  from  eye  profane,  rehearsed 
The  sacred  mysteries  of  their  ancient  cult. 

^|  And  in  that  city  lords  and  princes  dwelt, 
Son  following  father  in  unbroken  line 
In  old  ancestral  piles  that  firmer  seemed 
Than  granite  hills  coeval  with  the  world. 

^[  There  poets  wrote,  whose  long  renown  be- 
came 

Symbolical  of  all  that  lives  in  man, 
And  orators  from  forum  or  from  rock 
With    speech    tempestuous    blew    the  world 
afoam. 

^[  And  yet  that  city  sank  from  sight  as  sinks 
A  wounded  ship  into  the  secret  sea ; 
Died  even  as  a  man,  and  found  its  grave 
Beneath  the  desolate  and  shifting  sand, 
And  over  it  the  phantom  ages  stole 
In  long  procession,  voiceless  and  unmarked. 

31 


Unknown  that  city's  history  ;  its  creeds, 
Its  mighty  deeds  of  war,  its  tales  of  love, 
Of  high  ambition  and  of  finished  craft, 
Are  interfused  among  the  shapeless  years. 


But  now  from  out  the  silence  of  its  tomb 
Some  witless  peasant,  rummaging,  has  dug 
A  bit  of  carven  immortality  ; 
We  look  upon  its  matchless  curves,  and,  lo ! 
The  piles  and  temples  of  the  past  arise 
Like  visions  of  mirage  from  desert  sands. 


IMAGES  BEYOND  MORTAL  SKILL  SHALL  TAKE 
SHAPE. 

A  ND  there  are  visions  of  the  poet's  dream- 

**     ing, 

Uncarven  sculpture  of  the  peopled  brain, 

Whose  rosy  limbs,  with  health  immortal 
gleaming, 

Have  ne'er  enwrapped  in  spotless  marble  lain  ; 

Such  glowing  shapes,  of  such  ambrosial  seem- 
ing, 

The  slow  uncovering  chisel  seeks  in  vain. 


THE    BIRTH    OF    LOVE. 

HOW    sweet    it  is,  at  morning's  opening 
hour, 

To  lie  upon  an  island  slope's  incline, 
Sweeping  the  level  sea  from  out  a  bower 
Of  olive-boughs  or  fragrant  mountain-pine. 
At  such  a  time  did  Aphrodite  flower 
Dew-sparkling  in  the  garden  of  the  brine. 

Her  flesh  was  white  as  ocean  foam,  and  tinted 
With  the  same  pink  that  flushes  in  a  shell ; 
The  beauty  of  her  hair  in  flood  unstinted 
Warmly  about  her  sloping  shoulders  fell ; 
Her  eyes  with  glory  of  the  morning  glinted, 
Her  bosom  like  a  billow  rose  and  fell. 


^J  When  first  the  blue  with  glowing  form  she 

rifted, 

She  looked  about  with  innocent  surprise, 
And  when  upon  her  head  the  white  doves 

drifted, 
Like  flakes  of  snow  from  depths  of  summer 

skies, 

She  fondled  them,  her  lovely  arms  uplifted, 
Laughing  the  while  with  sea-blue  sunny  eyes. 

•*f[  The  lavish  waters  and  the  sky  bestowing 
Their  daintiest  gifts  had  made  her  passing  sweet, 
33 


And  as  the  foam,  from  off  her  nudeness  flow- 
ing, 

Dropped  like  a  garment  to  her  graceful  feet, 

The  world  grew  hush,  as  one  who  sees  his 
glowing 

Young  bride  arise  at  morn  from  snowy  sheet. 


ENDYMION. 

A  ND  sweet  it  is  for  maiden  and  for  lover, 
r*1     Moon  worshipping,  to  walk    alone  at 

night, 
Watching  the  solemn   mountain  wall  where 

hover 

Faint  misty  flushes  of  prophetic  light, 
Eager  to  know  which  earlier  shall  discover 
A  sudden  thread  of  gold  above  the  height. 

^f  Anon  the  stately  Queen  her  walk  has  started 
In  skyey  meads  with  starry  dew  bestrown ; 
How  easy  then  to  fancy  mystic-hearted 
Endymion  tiptoe  on  a  peak  alone, 
Looking  upon  her  face  with  lips  half-parted, 
And  hair  about  his  pallid  cheeks  wind-blown. 


A  LAS,  alas !  the  shapely  youth  is  sleeping 
•^^     In  lovely  languor  by  the  Latmian  Hill ; 
34 


No  fervid  kiss,  no  fingers  lightly  creeping 
About  his  flesh  can  ever  make  him  thrill ; 
And  though  a  goddess  for  his  love  is  weeping, 
Yet  doth  he  softly  breathe  and  lieth  still. 


^[  She  creeps  about  him,  bedding  him  in  roses, 
Trailing  cool  tresses  o'er  him  where  he  lies; 
Her  rifting  robe  her  snowy  breast  exposes, 
O'erhanging  fruit  too  fair  for  sleeping  eyes ; 
She  holds  him  tight  in  long  despairing  closes, 
And  all  the  wood  is  sweetened  with  her  sighs. 


ARTEMIS    AND   THE   SLEEPING   EN- 
DYMION. 


mortal  Love,  divinely  fair, 
*-         I  kiss  thy  mouth,  thy  neck,  thy  hair; 
With  kisses  that  should  thrill  the  dead, 
I  woo  thee  on  thy  flowery  bed, 

Endymion  !    Endymion  ! 

O  honey  of  the  budding  lips, 
Whereon  the  bee  mistaken  sips  ; 
O  velvet  neck,  befitting  place 
Wherein  a  goddess  hides  her  face, 

Endymion  !    Endymion  ! 
35 


I  feel  thy  bosom  fall  and  rise 

In  sleepy  rhythm  of  slumbrous  sighs, 

But  never  any  soft  caress 

Gives  thee  a  heart-throb  more  or  less, 

Endymion !    Endymion ! 


^[  Oh,  pink-white  Love,  if  thou  couldst  hear 
The  things  I  whisper  in  thine  ear ! 
I  whisper  close,  then  search  in  vain 
Thy  face  for  any  tell-tale  stain, 

Endymion !   Endymion  ! 


^[  Nor  do  thy  lids  one  tremor  show, 
When,  in  abandonment  of  woe, 
I  shout  to  wake  thee  from  this  spell 
Thy  name  that  chimeth  like  a  bell, 

Endymion !    Endymion ! 


^|  Oh,  would  I  were  a  shepherd  maid 
Plied  by  my  lover  in  the  shade ! 
One  June  should  hold  the  fulness  of 
An  immortality  of  love  ! 

Endymion  !    Endymion ! 


THE   SEA. 

A  H  me !  and  so  at  times  we  fall  a-musing, 
^*>     Until  our  spirits  steal  away  and  flee 
To  regions  of  their  own  untrammelled  choos- 
ing, 

Where  wildest  hopes  and  strangest  memories  be ; 
Such  mood  have  I  most  often  when  perusing 
The  antique  wrinkled  parchment  of  the  sea. 


I  deem  there  is  no  quiet  joy  intenser 
Than  being  on  a  summer  sea  at  night, 
When  slides  the  moon  from  out  the  wave, 

dispenser 

Of  mild  refulgence,  mystically  bright ; 
Or  when  she  swings  on  high  a  silver  censer 
That  fills  the  world  with  dim  perfume  of  light. 


I  oft  go  down  at  night  to  hear  Queen  Ocean 
Whisper  sweet  secrets  to  the  gray  old  sphere, 
The  while  he  slumbers,  sure  of  her  devotion, 
Feeling  her  white  arms  hold  him  very  near; 
And  if  the  winds  among  her  robes  make  motion, 
Their  silken  rustle  on  the  sand  I  hear. 


As  soon  as  Night  her  vigil  has  forsaken, 
And  flown  into  the  wild,  unstoried  West, 
37 


I  love  to  watch  the  radiant  sea  awaken, 
Breathing  Ceylon  and  Araby  the  blest ; 
And  when  the  Sun  his  first  rude  kiss  has  taken, 
Blushing  and  dimpling  as  becomes  her  best. 


TIME    AND    ETERNITY. 


home  is  on  a  pleasant  bay,  surrounded 
By  circling  hills,  fantastical  and  hoar  ; 
We  know  the  little  towns  our  fathers  founded, 
We  know  each  palm  and  olive  on  the  shore. 
Beyond  the  strait  the  open  gleams  unbounded, 
Its  waters  croon  and  whistle  evermore. 


When  I  no  more  have  keenest  joy  in  smelling 
The  new-mown  hay  upon  the  level  lea, 
When  maids  no  longer  set  my  heart  a- welling, 
And  rising  moons  a  transport  cease  to  be, 
Oh,  let  me  feel  beneath  me  strongly  swelling 
The  heaving  bosom  of  the  naked  sea ! 


PRINTED  FOR  THE  AUTHOR 
AT  THE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 
IN  CAMBRIDGE  BY  JOHN 
WILSON  AND  SON  UNDER 
THE  DIRECTION  OF  STONE 
AND  KIMBALL  OF  CHICAGO 
MDCCCXCV 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


3  M  A  S 


